


Gaining Indifference

by shirleypositive72



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 14:05:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1781761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirleypositive72/pseuds/shirleypositive72
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is tired. So tired of it all. Is there nothing that can take his mind off the worries that occupy his thoughts? Season 9, before the Mark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gaining Indifference

It just never ends, Dean thinks. The hits just keep coming. One after the other with barely a breath between. Since he was four years old, it’s been one long, never-ending story of survival between catastrophes. Mom on the ceiling, Dad going two left turns short of crazy with grief, Sam leaving, Dad dying, Sam dying, Bobby dying. Dean dying and going to Hell. Fucking Purgatory. Stopping demons, the apocalypse, and the Devil himself. Non-stop. Never-ending. He’s so tired.

*

And now he and Sam are in charge of ending the Heaven versus Hell rumble. Again. And again. And with only sporadic assistance from Castiel, the angel of Thursday and Split Personality Disorder. How did they get that job? He didn’t ask for the responsibility, but between Abbadon and Crowley, it seems the vote was rigged.

*

Is a break between the ends of the world too much to ask? Some time off to breathe, sleep, rest, get laid, do laundry, eat a fucking sandwich? Dean sighs deeply, closes his eyes in weary fatigue, then squares his shoulders. Time to get on with it.

*

He motions to Sam to hurry his ass up, and after his brother stows the gear, they take off. Not exactly sure where yet. Down the road. Away from here. That way, whichever that way turns out to be. It’s a pretty sure bet they’ll run into one clusterfuck or another, no matter their direction. He thinks fondly back to the days when the fork in the road made the decision between a Rugaru or a Poltergeist. Now it’s Angel or Demon. Heaven or Hell. Bad or really fucking bad. 

*

Seven hours in the car, endless miles down the road, he still has no idea where they’re going. Dean won’t tell Sam that, though. Even when his brother has had enough of his shit, Sam will trust Dean’s instincts on a job. But fuck it, there’s a bar and Dean could use a drink. It’s dark and late and he’s tired. A mile farther and he sends Sam into a cheap motel to get a room. Dean rolls the Impala back toward the booze. It’s the only thought that has brought him any form of anticipation today. That sweet, burning rush. The blast of heat that promises the cool of indifference it can bring if you drink enough.

*

He drinks one whiskey after the other, not giving one shit what the brand might be. Just feeling the heat. Gaining indifference in the smallest of fractions. Not fast enough. He drinks more, becoming aware of how the smoke from the cigarette resting in a tray three stools down from him curls in the air, as lazy as his thoughts. He hears the sound of the creasing of the canvas that forms his jacket as it bends to bring the glass to his lips. It doesn’t have the same satisfying creak that Dad’s old leather had. He feels the intermittent breeze caress his face as the fan above the bar swings back around to him and wonders if anything else will touch him tonight.

*

He closes his eyes and draws a breath, wishing the whiskey would do its job. Please, just a fucking break from this emo shit he can never escape.

*

When he opens his eyes, she is there.

* 

Deep red hair, creamy skin, the barest hint of freckles under her make up. Dean almost smiles. The freckles speak softly of innocence, contradicted by everything else about her. He knows his damned freckles are one of the things women find so attractive about him - the hint of long-lost innocence. He’s never quite understood that before now.

*

He asks her name. She tells him it’s Roxanne. The urge to ask her if she’s put on the red light is nearly overwhelming, but he resists. Too easy. He simply introduces himself, and she looks relieved. He’s sure it’s because he didn’t use that tired line. He wonders what kind of parents give their daughter a name like Roxanne.

*

Dean decides he wants her, wants her to touch him with light fingers like the breeze on his face. The confidence she exudes as she steps ever closer to him with no hesitation is sexy as hell. She reminds him of Anna, both in looks and attitude. He spares a pleasant thought for the fallen angel and their night in the back of his Impala before the memory of her betrayal rises. Turning his eyes from the beautiful woman now sitting to his right, he schools his thoughts away from angel food cake. He focuses instead on the spicy scent surrounding this very human woman by his side. Spice wrapped in flowers, he thinks of the fragrance; another contradiction. He likes the riddle she’s turning out to be.

*

She can’t quite keep up with him, matching every two of his drinks with one of her own. Not bad, he knows, since he drinks professionally these days. Again. Every time he thinks he has it under control, his life becomes too much. Again. The need to make each day bearable is more important than his sobriety. He takes another drink and redirects his thoughts once more to the beauty leaning into him. He tips his empty glass to her and raises his eyebrow, another turn on for the ladies. Suggesting they get a drink someone more private, she leads him out of the bar. He can think of no reason good enough not to go.

*

He follows her in the Impala, unwilling to leave his baby behind. She, his car, is one of the few constants along the thread of his life. She brings him comfort, and she’ll bring him back to Sam when he is finished with the woman in the SUV ahead of him. So callous to think of it like that, but truthful. He is using Roxanne to feel something, anything, that isn’t full of overwhelming defeat. She has her own reasons, though he doesn’t know what they are. It could just be that she thinks he’s hot and wants to get off. Why not? Why can’t it be that simple? He shakes that thought away. Nothing is ever that simple.

*

She has a small house, neat, well-kept, on a quiet street. Dean feels a spark of jealousy when he walks in the door behind her. The place feels so much like a home. He pushes that feeling aside with a grimace he’s sure she doesn’t notice. He’s tried the home thing before and understands that the domesticity of suburbia isn’t for him. Not really. Past experience has taught him that “home” has no place in his fucked up life. She moves into him, insistently pulling with a hand on his neck. Tasting the mingled whiskey on their tongues, he no longer cares.

*

Dean feels no need to waste time here, but he has always been one to savour the moment. Do it now, but do it right. With a hand on her back to guide her steps, he moves Roxanne until her back is against the wall beside her hurriedly closed door. She’s shorter than he, but not tiny, and that makes this much easier. He can reach her mouth without bending in half, he can touch her body without leaving her mouth. Moving his hands down her sides, he feels every tremble and flutter along her skin. Her shirt has risen a couple of inches, and he takes advantage of the opportunity being presented. Running his calloused fingertips in lazy circles up to her ribs then back down to her hips, he mirrors the languid pace with his tongue.

*

Feeling a sharp intake of breath against his lips, Dean knows he’s on the right track with her. She’s not going to push him away to offer him a beer, she’s not going to try to get to know anything about him beyond his name. She’s not going to stop him. This chick brought him home to get laid, and Dean is in total support of that plan.

*

He takes hold of the bottom of her thin band tee as his hands follow back down the path he set. He pushes the soft, black material up her body, his hands nearly encircling her slim but not skinny frame. He thinks of how the tee shirt caught his eye even before her looks. Tee shirt and jeans, not trying too hard. A good band, Pearl Jam, not exactly his favorite, but showing her good taste. And then he stops thinking about her good taste to enjoy the fact that she tastes good. Don’t think, just do; that’s why he’s here.

*

The shirt hits the floor after sliding over that red hair, and he has to run his hands through it, closing his fist around a handful, testing her limit. She bites his chin and tells him in a husky voice that she will let him know when it’s too much. Encouraged by the tone of her voice as much as the words she said, Dean decides he can move this into a higher gear. Hands on her hips, he pulls her tight against him. He knows she can feel his excitement at her willingness to play; it’s hard against her stomach. 

*

Her body catlike as she arches into him, Roxanne runs her searching hands across his chest. She pulls at the hair at the nape of his neck and licks behind his ears. It’s the bite on his earlobe that flips his switch, though, and he bangs her back into the wall. This time he doesn’t check himself; she said she’d let him know if he got too rough,and he believes her. Showing off some of the speed for which he is well known in his world, a world this woman has no idea even exists, he grabs both wrists and holds them firmly in place against the wall above her head. 

*

She widens her soft green eyes, the same color but such a different shade from his own, and looks up at him. Widened, yes, but not in fear. Dean knows the look of fear in all its forms. This is excitement, and he’s pretty damn sure he’s wearing much the same expression. She’s more than ready for this game, and she’s letting him make the rules.

*

Hell, yes.

 

*

Dean takes a moment to appreciate all that is being offered to him at this moment. This beautiful woman, deferring to him, under his control, his for the taking. And take, he will. With every heaving and excited breath, her pale, full breasts spill over the top of her black lacy bra. This makes him want to see if the panties match. He thinks they will; Roxanne was looking for the same thing he was tonight, after all.

*

Without a word, just a raised eyebrow as he searches her eyes, he cups a lace-covered swell before he drags his right hand down the front of her. Left hand still grasping her wrists, he can feel the tension increasing in her muscles. Pressed up against her as close as his roaming hand allows, he can feel her breathing become more shallow. Kissing her teasingly, he can feel her lips quiver. He can feel, he can feel, he can feel. And that’s all he wants.

*

Reaching her jeans, Dean runs his finger inside the band, back and forth, letting her know this is going to a new place. Going to a new place where he very much wants to be. A tug at a belt loop is the only permission he seeks before popping the button. Slowly moving the zipper down, tooth by tooth, he kisses her down the length of her white-skinned neck, pausing to nip at the racing pulse he finds there. He licks the indentation in the well of her throat then feathers his tongue along her collarbone. The bite on her breast brings a moan from so deep within her that he can feel the vibration.

*

Further down her body as he bends his knees, breathing in the scent of her skin, he leaves light kisses, tiny licks, little bites. The bites are her favorite, he thinks, judging by the shiver that rolls through her every time he does it. So he does it one more time, then steadily pulls down her tight, faded jeans. Steady, not hurried, no amateur yanking down her legs. He peels them, revealing her inch by inch, heightening the excitement for them both. He smiles to himself when he sees that he was right. Of course, he was. Black lace.

*

Roxanne kicks off the little black ankle boots she was wearing as he reaches her knees. She’s done that before, he surmises, from the way she did it without pushing him away. She drops by a few inches, and Dean realizes she is smaller than he thought. Not a problem he can’t work around. Jeans discarded, he raises up quickly, arms under her legs as he goes. He holds her against the wall. leans in as close as he can get, pressing her, feeling her. Her legs wrapped around his waist is the feeling he’s been waiting for all night.

*

His body holding her in place, he leans on his forearms on either side of her head. He sees and feels so much of her, so much of her skin, and he likes it. He likes how exposed she is, how uncovered, and revels in his dominance. He lowers an arm, and with nimble fingers that can shoot with sniper accuracy, can throw a knife to shave off the wing of a butterfly, can curl on themselves and beat anyone and anything into submission, Dean delicately finds the one part of her than is wetter and hotter and more inviting than her mouth. Pushing aside the matching panties, he takes teasing possession of what she brought him here to give. At the soft moan she looses, he gives one smirk, lowers his head to shoulder, and bites,giving her what he knows she likes.

*

His teeth sinking into her shoulder as his fingers work her over, Dean knows that she can’t hold on to whatever small bit of control she has left. The shout that tears through her is almost shocking, as is the speed with which she comes. By the look on her face, he feels confident in assuming no man has ever been able to get her there so fast. Nice to know he can do something that feels good, something right. He knows he’s always been damn good at this.

*

Pausing a moment to consider his next move, Roxanne makes the decision for him. She pushes his ever-present flannel shirt off his shoulders and catches his eyes. Her look clearly conveys the message that he is too clothed. Lowering her to the floor, Dean backs up just enough to pull his t-shirt over his head. When he reaches toward his belt, she shakes her head. She tells him that it’s her turn, and Dean is more than happy to let her have it.

*

Directing him to move, she has him trade places with her, his back now to the wall. She doesn’t tease him, or make a big production out of the act of undressing him. She knows what she wants. She knows how to get it. Simple as that. He kicks out of his boots much less gracefully than she did just a few minutes ago. This draws a smile from her. It’s sexy with that hint of sweet that he has decided he really likes about her. Shirts, jeans, boots now gone, Roxanne removes his boxer briefs. Dean has only a moment to think about how she has now regained the upper hand, since he is completely naked and she isn’t, before she robs him of those ridiculous thoughts.

*

Instead, Dean thinks about how there are very, very few things he enjoys more in this world than the feeling of a hot mouth, wet tongue, and full lips around his dick. Dropping his head back with a quiet thud, Dean sends a silent thank you to the first glass of whiskey he drank tonight - that was the one that brought him to the bar. Damn, is he happy he needed that whiskey. He relaxes for the first time in what seems like months. He focuses on the feel of her mouth, the tickle of her hair on his thighs, the scratch of her nails on his ass. The sounds, holy fuck. She hums, she breathes deeply through her nose; the wet sound of her moving up and down his cock is hypnotic.

*

She’s good at this, he thinks. She enjoys it, or, at least, she’s really good at pretending she does. The way her hand follows her mouth when she pulls back and gives a little twist at the head, the way she does not even hint at a gag when he hits the back of her throat as she pulls him back in - just exactly what he needs. He’s so relaxed, so calm, that when she uses her teeth, just barely glides them over the sensitive skin, he doesn’t have it in him to stop the complete and total release it brings him.

*

Once he comes down from the high of orgasm, he curses in frustration. It’s only when she informs him that now he’ll last longer when they get into the bedroom that he is able to wear a small smile. She really does know what she’s doing.

 

*

Roxanne leaves her black lace panties behind her as she leads him to the bedroom. Finally he gets his first look at that perky little ass. He thinks he might want to take a bite. Just a small one. He thinks he could bounce a nickel off that ass, but this brings up memories of being trapped in a basement far away and long ago with a dark-haired beauty he should have killed but instead watched die. He shakes off the thought of that other face, and focuses on the sight of the huge bed in front of him.

*

She crawls to the center of the king size mattress on her hands and knees, and Dean hurries to catch her before she rolls over. Grabbing her around her waist, he pulls her back toward where he is standing at the end of the bed. And bites her left cheek. Just a little. Very satisfying. She lets out a little yelp, the first time she’s been outwardly playful in this encounter. Dean is not interested in playful right now, not really. He smacks her ass to get her attention, then moves his hand up the center of her back, applying pressure as he slides it higher.

*

This is not her first go at this game. She knows exactly what to do, and he is pleased when she responds just the way he wants her to. Balancing her body, widening her arms, popping that ass right at him, she knows what comes next. And he can’t wait to give it to her. Realizing he forgot to get the condom he always keeps in his wallet, Dean begins to back up off the bed. She anticipates his need once again and reaches over to her bedside table. Handing the foil-wrapped lifesaver back to him, she turns her head slightly and smirks. He rewards her with a wink, as he hurriedly rolls it on.

*

At the small chuckle she allows him to hear, Dean thinks it’s about damn time he regains control here. Gripping her hips tight enough to signal his intent, he smoothly pushes inside her. She inhales through her teeth as each inch finds its place. Dean makes no noise. He’s just so happy to be here.

*

He’s happy to be here, in this bed, fucking this girl. He’s happy to be away from Sam, away from another motel room that is just like every single other motel room, no matter the small changes from place to place. He’s happy to be out of that smoke-filled, sweat-smelling bar, trying to hook up with any random chick who was halfway pretty and all the way willing. He’s happy to be outside his head, far from the thoughts that only still when he is deep inside a woman, free from the memories of women who have come and gone, who think of him no more.

*

He’s happy to have gained indifference in the face of all that threatens to make him feel the emotions from which he runs.

*

He thinks these things so briefly, it’s as though they were never thought. And he pushes Roxanne toward her second orgasm of the night. It won’t be her last.

*

Roxanne is humming. Not the I-kind-of-know-the-words-to-a-song kind of humming, not the I-am-happy-and-content kind of humming, but the jaw-clenched-can't-make-any-other-sound kind of humming. Dean takes this as a good sign that orgasm number three was thoroughly enjoyed. Good damn thing, too, he thinks, since he may not last long enough to get her to four. 

*

He's pulls her back from her hands and knees until they are both upright and she rests in his lap. Well, she isn't exactly resting. No rest for the wicked, he'd heard somewhere before, and she is definitely wicked. She's spent, worn out, tired as fuck, but Dean needs her to keep taking it for just a few more minutes. He allows her to lean back into his chest, her legs not quite able to keep her upright. All she has to do is not say stop. Dean has both arms wrapped around her, one hand on a breast, one loose around her throat, as he powers into her.

*

So close to the release he went searching for those hours ago. So close to the blinding jolt of uncontrolled pleasure he needs so badly. In that moment there is no thought, no memory, only the freeing obliteration of all sense of time and space and emotion. The girl could be anyone or no one; in that moment it doesn't matter one damn who she is. When he comes, it's just him, it's just about . . . him. His past counts for shit, his future counts for shit. His mission, his destiny, his crimes and heroics, none of it matters. It's all he wants right now, for none of it to matter.

*

A tightening of his sweaty grip, an arch of her back, a tug on his hair, one last stroke, and Dean is there. He thinks he cries out, he knows his eyes are closed, he feels his hold become stronger, but he stops caring before he can even worry if he's hurting her. Powerful waves of relief pass through him, over him; it's just so damn good. He stops breathing, just trying to prolong the feeling, moves once more within her to keep it going. He feels loose, he feels good. He feels. He feels.

*

Feeling Roxanne untangle herself from his arms, Dean lets her go and stretches out on his stomach beside her. They are both sweaty and panting, and it's awesome. She gets up and walks naked out of the room, only to return with two beers. Sitting back on the bed, she hands one to him, and they clink bottles as he sits up. No words, no cuddling, no needy touches, Dean thinks this is exactly what he was looking for, and smiles. But when she tells him he is welcome to shower before he leaves, he knows it isn't. He knows what he's missing, he remembers the life he once had though that life cannot remember him. And he is grateful that for that one fucking orgasmic moment with this girl, he was free from those memories.

*

He showers, he dresses, he kisses her when he walks out the door, and leaves her behind with a smile on her face. She is already forgotten. He leaves them all behind, forgotten in all but the stories he likes to tell Sam just to see him uncomfortable, forgotten in all but the mental pictures he uses when he has only himelf for relief. Shoved into the crowded mind that never shuts up, never leaves him alone, never allows his indifference to linger.

*

Damn, he needs a drink.


End file.
